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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
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http://www.archive.org/details/rubaiyatofomarcaOOburg 



rHE RUBAIYAT OF 

3MAR CAYENNE 



BY 

GELETT BURGESS 



3 3 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A STOKES COMPANY 

Publishers 



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DEC 8 1^04 

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Copyright, 1904, 

BY 

Gelett Burgess 



Published December, IQ04 



THE RUBAIYAT 



OF 



OMAR C AYENN E 



Wake ! For the Hack can scatter into flight 
Shakespere and Dante in a single Night ! 

The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikes 
Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight. 



II 



Before Historical Romances died, 
Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, 
" When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, 
Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried ? " 



THE RUBAIYAT OF 



III 

A cock-sure Grew with Names ne'er heard before 
Greedily shouted — ''Open then the Door! 

You know how little Stuff is going to live, 
But where it came from there is plenty More." 



IV 

Now the New Year reviving old Desires, 
The Artist poor to Calendars aspires, 

But of the StufE the Publisher puts out 
Most in the Paper Basket soon suspires. 



V 

Harum indeed is gone, and Lady Rose, 
And Janice Meredith, where no one knows; 

But still the Author gushes overtime, 
And many a Poet babbles on in Prose. 



VI 

Aldrich's lips are lock'd ; but people buy 
High-piping Authoresses, boomed sky-high. 

'' How Fine! '' — the Publisher cries to the Mob, 
That monumental Cheek to justify. 



OMAR CAYENNE 



VII 

Come, fill the Purse, to Publishers, this Spring, 
Your Manuscripts of paltry Passion bring: 

The New York Times has oft a little Way 
Of praising — let The Times your praises sing. 



VIII 

Whether by Century or Doubleday, 
Whether Macmillan or the Harpers pay, 

The Publisher prints new books every Year; 
The Critics will keep Busy, anyway! 



IX 

Each Morn a thousand Volumes brings, you say ; 
Yes, but who reads the Books of Yesterday? 

And this first Autumn List that brings the New 
Shall take The Pit and Mrs. Wiggs away. 



sx 

Well, let it take them! What, are we not through 
With Richard Calmady and Emmy Lou? 

Let Ade and Dooley guy us as they will, 
Or Ella Wheeler Wilcox — heed not you. 



8 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XI 



With me despise this kind of Fiction rude 
That just divides the Rotten from the Good, 

Where names of Poe and Dickens are forgot- 
And Peace to Thackeray with his giant Brood ! 



XII 

A Book of Limericks — Nonsense, anyhow- 
Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow 

Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue — 
Ah, this were Modern Literature enow! 



XIII 

Some for the stories of The World ; and some 
Sigh for the Boston Transcript till it come; 
Ah, take The Sun, and let The Herald go, 
Nor heed the Yellow Journalistic scum ! 



XIV 

Look to the blowing Advertiser — " Lo, 
Booming's the way," he says, *' to make Books go! 

I advertise until IVe drained my Purse, 
And huge Editions on the Market throw.' 



>> 



OMAR CAYENNE 



XV 

And those who made a Mint off Miss MacLane, 
And those who shuddered at her Jests profane, 

Alike consigned her to Oblivion, 
And buried once, would not dig up again. 



XVI 

Anthony Hope men set their hearts upon — 
Like Conan Doyle he prospered; and anon, 

Remained unopened on the dusty Shelf, 
Delighting us an Hour — and then was gone. 



XVH 

Think, in this gaudy monthly Magazine 
Whose Covers are Soapette and Breakfastine^ 

How Author after Author with his Tale 
Fills his fool Pages, and no more is seen. 



XVHI 

They say that now Miss Myra Kelly reaps 
Rewards that Howells used to have for Keeps: 

And Seton, that great Hunter of Wild Beasts 
Has Coin ahead; Cash comes to him in Heaps! 



lo THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XIX 

I sometimes think that never Prose is read 
So good as that by Advertising bred, 

And every Verse Sapolian poets sing 
Brings laurel w^reaths once twined for Spenser's head. 



XX 

And this audacious Author, young and green 
In Smart Set — surely you know whom I mean- 

Ah, look upon him lightly ! for who knows 
But once in Lippincott's he wrote unseen ! 



XXI 

Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears 
To-day of dreary Debt and sad Arrears; 

To-morrow! — ^Why, To-morrow I may see 
My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's. 



XXII 

For some weVe read, the month's Six Selling Best 
The Bookman scored with elephantine Jest, 

Have sold a half a Million in a Year, 
Yet no one ever heard of them, out West! 



OMAR CAYENNE ii 



XXIII 

And we, that now within the Editor's Room 
Make merry while we have our little Boom, 

Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set — 
Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from 
Whom! 

XXIV 

Ah, make the most of what we yet may do, 
Before our Royalties have vanished, too, 

Book after Book, and under Book to lie, 
Sans Page, sans Cover, Reader— or Review! 



XXV 

Alike for those who for To-day have Shame, 
And those who strive for some To-morrow^s Fame, 
A Critic from anonymous Darkness cries. 
Fools, your Reward will fool you, just the Same! " 



It 



XXVI 

Why, e'en Marie Corelli, who discuss'd 
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, is thrust 

Like Elbert Hubbard forth; her Words to Scorn 
Are scattered, and her Books by Critics cussed. 



12 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XXVII 

Myself when young did eagerly peruse 
James, Meredith and Hardy — but to lose 

My Reason, trying to make Head or Tail ; 
The more I read, the more did they confuse. 



XXVIII 

With them the Germs of Madness did I sow, 

And with ** Two Magics '' sought to make it grow; 

Yet this was all the Answer that I found — 
*' What it is all about, I do not know ! " 



XXIX 

Into the Library, and Why not knowing. 
Nor What I Want, I find myself a-going; 
And out of it, with Nothing fit to Read- 
Such is the Catalogue's anaemic Showing. 



XXX 

What, without asking, to be hypnotized 
Into a Sale of Stevenson disguised ? 

Oh, many a page of Bernard Shaw's last Play 
Must drown the thought of Novels Dramatized ! 



OMAR CAYENNE 13 



XXXI 

Up from the Country, into gay Broadway 
I came, and bought a Scribner's, yesterday, 

And many a Tale I read and understood, 
But not the master-tale of Kipling's " They.'* 

XXXII 

There was a Plot to which I found no Key ; 
And Others seem to be as Dull as Me; 

Some little talk there was of Ghosts, and Such, 
Then Mrs. Bathurst left me more at Sea! 

XXXIII 

Kim could not answer — Sherlock Holmes would 

fail— 
The most enlightened Browningite turn pale 

In futile Wonder and in blank Dismay; 
Say, is there ANY Meaning to that Tale? 

XXXIV 

Then of the Critic, he who works behind 
The Author's back, I tried the Clue to find ; 
But he, too, was in Darkness; and I heard 
A Literary Agent say — '' They All are Blind! " 



14 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XXXV 

Then, from the lips of Editor, I learn, 
** This Story is the Kind for which I Yearn; 
Its Advertising brought us such Renown, 
We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on that 
Turnr' 

XXXVI 

I think the man exaggerated some 

His increased Circulation, — ^but, I vum! 

If I could get Two Thousand for one Tale, 
Fd write him Something that would simply Hum! 

XXXVII 

For I remember, shopping by the way, 
I saw a Novel writ by Bertha Clay; 

And there was scrawled across its Title-Page, 
" This is the Stuff that Sells — so People say ! " 

XXXVIII 

Listen — a moment listen! — Of the same 
Wood-pulp on which is printed Hewlett's Name, 

The "Duchess *' Books are made — in fifty years 
They both will rot asunder — who's to Blame? " 



OMAR CAYENNE 15 



XXXIX 

And not a Book that from our Shelves we throw 
To the Salvation Army, but shall go 

To vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul 
Who can get nothing else to read — go Slow! 



XL 



As then the Poet for his morning Sup 
Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, 

Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts 
That Someone may, before you burn them up ! 



XLI 

Perplex'd no more with editorial " Nay '* 
To-morrow's Reputation cast away, 

And lose your College Education in 
The flippant, foolish Fiction of To-day. 



XLII 

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, 
End in the Garbage Barrel — take no Heed; 

Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, 
Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need. 



i6 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XLIII 

So, when Who''s-Who records your silly Name, 
You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame ; 

And though ten thousand other Names are there, 
Youll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same! 



XLIV 

Why, if an Author can fling Art aside. 
And in a Book of Balderdash take Pride, 

Wer't not a Shame — ^wer't not a Shame for him 
A Conscientious Novel to have tried? 



XLV 

Writing's a Trade where Newspapers pay best ; 
LeGallienne this Verity conf ess'd ; 

So join the Union, like the rest of us — 
Who strikes for Art is looked at as a Jest. 



XLVI 

And fear not, if the Editor refuse 

Your work, he has no more from which to choose ; 

The Literary Microbe shall bring forth 
Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use. 



OMAR CAYENNE 17 



XLVII 

When Fitch's Comedies have all gone past, 
Oh, the long Time Pinero's plays shall last, 

Which of Belasco's little Triumphs heed 
As Frohman's Self should heed a Bowery Cast ! 

XLVIII 

A Moment's Halt — Pray see this charming, chaste 
Ladies' Home Journal — *' On the New Shirt 
Waist "— 
" Advice to Girls," and so forth — here is reach'd 
The Nothing women yearn for, undebased ! 

XLIX 

Would you a hurried Lunch Hour wish to spend 
About THE SECRET — hearken to me. Friend! 

The Editors themselves must guess their Way — 
And on their Wives' and Sisters' Hints depend ! 



A Hair perhaps divides the Good from Bad ; 
And Bok himself a Lot of Trouble had 

Before he found Stenographers were Wise — 
Then, as they laughed or wept, his Soul was glad. 



i8 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



LI 

The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; 
For her the Home-and-Mother Tale, and Scenes 

Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End — 
The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means. 



LH 

The Theme once guessed, the Tale's as good as told, 
Though Dialect and Local Color mould ; 

This Style will last throughout Eternity, 
While Women buy our Books — if Books are sold. 



LHI 

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot 
Which these immortal Elements has not. 
You gaze To-day upon a Slip, which reads: 
The Editor Regrets " — and such-like Rot. 



(( 



LIV 

Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use 
That Subtle Touch which Editors refuse; 

Better be jocund at two cents a word 
Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse! 



OMAR CAYENNE 19 



LV 

You know, my Friends, IVe done with Purple Cows, 
And long to sober Fiction paid my Vows ; 

Spontaneous Glee is mighty hard to Sell — 
'Twas Carolyn Wells that shot across my Bows. 



LVI 

For Stuff and Nonsense being in my Line, 
As Nonsense modern Fiction I define; 

But of the sort that one would care for, I 
Can find but Little — and that Little's mine ! 



LVII 

Ah, but this wholesale Satire, you may say, 
Makes me pretend to be a Critic— Nay! 

Rather be roasted than to roast, say I ; 
And I have been well roasted, by the way! 



LVIII 

And lately, in a Studio, a Miss 

Sat smiling o'er a Book — and it was this: 

'' The Pipes of Pan '' — she showed it me, and read, 
Bidding me pay attention — it was Bliss! 



20 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



LIX 

Bliss Carman, who with genius absolute, 
My poor satiric Logic can confute ; 

The only Poet who, in modern Days, 
His Poems can to clinking Gold transmute ! 



LX 



The vagrant Singer, how does he, good Lord, 
Compete with such a money-making Horde 

Of tinsel rhymesters that infest the Shops? 
They say he makes enough to pay his Board ! 



LXI 

Why, be our Talent truly Art, how dare 
Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere? 

And if it's Rot, as our Rejections hint, 
God knows the things they print are Rot, for Fair! 



Lxn 

I must abjure Dramatic Force, I must 
Take the Sub-Editor's decree on Trust, 

Or, lured by hope of selling something Good, 
Write out my Heart — then burn it in Disgust ! 



OMAR CAYENNE 21 



LXIII 

Oh, threats of Failure, hopes of Royalties! 
One thing at least I've sold — these Parodies; 
One thing is certain, Satire always sells; 
The Roast is read, no matter where it is. 



LXIV 

Strange, is it not ? that of the Authors who 
Publish in England, such a mighty Few 

Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? 
The British Public knows a Thing or Two ! 



LXV 

By Revelations of the Past we've learn'd 
The Yankee Author usually is burn'd ; 

All of our Story Writers say the Same ; 
The London Critic all their Books have spurn'd. 



LXVI 

I sent my Agent where the Buyers dwell, 
Some clever Stories of my own to sell: 
And by and by the Agent said to me, 
One thing I sold — that's doing Mighty Well ! " 



it 



22 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



LXVII 

So Heaven seems tame indeed when I behold 
Editions of Five Hundred Thousand sold; 
When Clippings show how Critics scorch me, 
then 
Heirs Roasting seems comparatively Cold! 

LXVHI 

We are no other than a passing Show 

Of clumsy Mountebanks that come and go 

To please the General Public ; now, who gave 
To IT the right to judge, Fd like to know? 

LXIX 

Impotent Writers bound to feed ITS taste 
For Literature and Poetry debased ; 

Hither and thither pandering we strive. 
And one by one our Talents are disgraced. 

LXX 

The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, 
But what the Editor demands he shows ; 

And he who buys three thousand words of Drule, 
He knows what People want — you Bet He knows ! 

LofC. 



OMAR CAYENNE 23 



LXXI 

The facile Scribbler writes; and, having writ, 
No Rules of Rhetoric bother him a Bit, 

Or lure him back to cancel half a Line, 
Nor Grammar's protests change a Word of It. 

LXXII 

And though you wring your Hands and wonder 

Why 
Such slipshod Work the Magazines will buy, 

Don't grumble at the Editor, for he 
Must serve the Public, e'en as You and I. 

LXXIII 

With Puck's first joke, they did the last Life feed, 
And there of Judge's Stories sowed the Seed : 
And the first jokelet that Joe Miller wrote 
The Sunday Comic-Section readers read. 

LXXIV 

Yesterday This Day's popular Song supplants; 
To-morrow's will be even worse, perchance: 

Drink ! For the latest Coon-Song's floating by : 
Drink ! Now the music is an Indian Dance ! 



24 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



LXXV 

I tell you this — When, started from the Goal, 
The first Plantation Ditty 'gan to roll 

Through Minstrel Troupes and Negro Baritones 
In its predestined race from Pole to Pole, 



LXXVI 

The Song had caught a Rag-Time girls could shout 
And Piano-Organs make a Din about; 

But syncopated Melodies at last 
Will pass away, and more shall come, no doubt. 



LXXVII 

And this I know: though Vaudeville delight, 
Musical Comedy can bore me quite; 

One act of Ibsen from the Gallery caught, 
Better than Daly for a festal Night ! 



LXXVIII 

What ! out of senseless Show-Girls to evoke 
A Drama? Surely, I resent the Joke! 

For me, it is not Pleasure, but a Pain — 
An Everlasting Bore for decent Folk. 



OMAR CAYENNE 23 



LXXIX 

What, must the Theatre Manager be paid — 
Our Gold for what his Carpenter has made — 
Must we pay Stars we never did Contract, 
And cannot hiss at? — Oh, the sorry trade! 



LXXX 

* 

Oh Thou, who dost with cool sarcastic Grin 
Scorn the poor Magazine my Story's in. 

Though Thou impute to ignorance my Work, 
I know how bad 't will be, ere I begin ! 



LXXXI 

Oh Thou, whose Taste demandeth silly Tales, 
Damning the Author when he Tries and Fails, 
Let us toss up to see which one is Worse — 
Thy Fault or mine— Which is it, Heads or Tails? 



* * * * 



26 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



LXXXII 

As, for his Luncheon Hour, away had sh'pp'd 
The Editor, his Office-Boy I tipp'd, 

And once again before the Sacred Desk 
I stood, surrounded by much Manuscript. 



LXXXHI 

Manuscripts of all Sizes, great and small, 
Upon that Desk, in Numbers to appall! 

And Some looked very interesting; some 
I saw no Sign of Merit in, at all. 



LXXXIV 

Said one among them — " Surely not in vain 
My Author has exhausted all his Brain 

In writing me, to be rejected here— 
rd hate to have to be sent back again! '' 



LXXXV 

Then said a Second — ** Ne'er a Girl or Boy 
Such Stuff as I am really could enjoy: 

Yet He who wrote me, when I am returned, 
Will me with Curse and bitter Wrath destroy! 



>> 



OMAR CAYENNE 27 



LXXXVI 

After a literary Silence spake 

A Manuscript of Henry James's make; 

" They sneer at me for being so occult: 
But Kipling's found such Stuff is going to Take ! " 



LXXXVII 

Whereat some one of the typewritten Lot — 
I think it was Cy Brady's — waxing hot — 

" All this of Shop and Patter — Tell me then, 
Who buys — Who reads — the Stuff that boils my 
Pot?" 



LXXXVIII 



<( 



Why," said another, " Some there are who tell 
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell 

The luckless Tales he marr'd in making — Pish! 
He's a blamed Fool, Any Old Thing will sell ! " 



LXXXIX 

'* Well," murmur'd one, " Let whoso write or buy, 
My words with long Oblivion are gone dry: 

But bind me new, let Christy illustrate, 
Methinks I'd sell at Christmas time; I'll try! " 



28 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XC 

So while the Manuscripts were wisely speaking, 
The Editor came in whom I was seeking: 

And then they signalled to me, *' Brother! Brother! 
Yours is rejected! You had best be sneaking! " 



j^ j^ jAl jAl jJl 

•I* ^* *^ #1^ , •^ 



XCI 

Though Carnegie for Literature provide, 
He tombs a Body whence the Life has died, 

And no one seems to turn a single leaf 
Upon the unfrequented Classic side. 



xcn 

Unless to see some First Edition rare, 
Or curious styles of Binding to compare; 

Art's True Believers know their Aldus well, 
But of the Author bound, are unaware ! 



OMAR CAYENNE 29 



XCIII 

Indeed, Rare Books that they have yeamM for long 
Have done their Literary Taste much wrong: 

Reprints of Burton will not sell to-day 
(I mean the stupid Burton) for a Song! 



XCIV 

Indeed, such First Editions oft before 
I envied, but they proved to be a Bore. 

Why, are not Tenth Editions still more rare? 
Mine are! Why are they not worth even more? 



xcv 

And much as Art has play'd the Infidel 
And robb'd me of my Royalties — Ah, well, 

I often wonder what the Women read 
One half as clever as the StufE I sell ! 



XCVI 

Yet Ah, that Spring should come to bring our Woes! 
That Christmas Season's Sales should ever close! 
The Book whose praises loud the Critic sang. 
Is not the one that sells the most, God knows ! 



30 THE RUBAIYAT OF 



XCVII 

Would but these Book Reviewers ever yield 
One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, reveaFd 

Of what the fainting Traveller can read 
Worth reading — ^but the Critic's eyes are seal'd. 



XCVIII 

Would but some winged Angel bring the News 
Of Critic who reads Books that he Reviews! 

And make the stern Reviewer do as well 
Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse! 



XCIX 

Ah, Love! could you and I perchance succeed 
In boiling down the Million Books we read 

Into One Book, and edit that a Bit — 
There'd be a World's Best Literature^ indeed ! 



« 4^ 4^ « » 



OMAR CAYENNE 31 



Oh, rising Author, read Me once again 
Before my Memory gradually wane! 

How oft hereafter you may look for me 
In this same Library — and look in vain! 



CI 

And when, dear Reader, you shall chance to spend 
A night within The Hall of Fame — attend ! 

If, in that blissful call, you find the Spot 
iWhere I broke in — don't turn me down, my friend ! 



WIS 
























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